


A Question of Relinquishing

by PrincexPhoenix



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Fishing, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix
Summary: The cabin was charming, in the same way a wild deer was, its muzzle pressed against the grass, nibbling at the delicate shoots and buds. It creaked and moaned during storms, rain pelting its walls from the outside. Sometimes, the roof leaked, dripping life giving water into a metal pot for reuse. The metallic clang ran through the otherwise quiet night.It kept Hannibal up those nights. He stared at the ceiling and counted the drips. The mental exercise would see him through the night, lost in the ever increasing number of clangs that threatened to blur together. When he roused himself from those reveries, it was with a stiffness that was new to him.His bullet wound, healed by a year's rest and tending, still ached on those rainy days. It was a reminder of the way Francis Dolarhyde sank his talons into flesh, scarring and ripping. It was a reminder to be careful, and not let compassion overrule sense.A reminder that Hannibal often failed to heed.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 146





	A Question of Relinquishing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hcnnibal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hcnnibal/gifts).



> Written for the lovely hcnnibal, who you can find on Tumblr, as he is doing a mailing list and one good COVID-19 turn deserves a million more.
> 
> Beta'd by @NerdyMassi! Thank you!!!!
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Anne M. Doe Overstreet, Mare Draws Her Lover Fishing at Dusk**

_Everyone knows_

_a cast is not a question of strength so much_

_as a relinquishing, that the line’s release_

_is an extension from the wrist to the lunge_

_and snap of a Cutthroat Trout._

The cabin was charming, in the same way a wild deer was, its muzzle pressed against the grass, nibbling at the delicate shoots and buds. It creaked and moaned during storms, rain pelting its walls from the outside. Sometimes, the roof leaked, dripping life giving water into a metal pot for reuse. The metallic clang ran through the otherwise quiet night.

It kept Hannibal up those nights. He stared at the ceiling and counted the drips. The mental exercise would see him through the night, lost in the ever increasing number of clangs that threatened to blur together. When he roused himself from those reveries, it was with a stiffness that was new to him. 

His bullet wound, healed by a year's rest and tending, still ached on those rainy days. It was a reminder of the way Francis Dolarhyde sank his talons into flesh, scarring and ripping. It was a reminder to be careful, and not let compassion overrule sense.

A reminder that Hannibal often failed to heed.

He pulled himself from the bed and sat on its edge, looking over at the other side. It was made up and tidy. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, savouring the feeling of the cool air on his bare skin. It was a lover's caress, soft and sweet. He lowered his arms and opened the curtains, gazing out onto the forest he called home.

Summer was coming, and he opened the window, inhaling the air redolent with flowers and heat. He closed his eyes and thought of the taste of wine, white and sharp, paired with berries and cheese. Smiling to himself, he turned from the window and pulled out an outfit to wear.

Since the fall, where he was pulled over the side of the cliff, his choices in clothes were limited by finances and availability. Through careful sourcing and a few murders, Hannibal found himself in possession of a suitable wardrobe. He pulled on the soft shirt now, sleeves long but tight against his arms. Boxers and slacks followed, and he padded through the house barefoot. 

There was a pot of coffee made, and his mug sat beside it. Hannibal poured himself a cup and sipped it, the dark bitterness lingering on his tongue. Burnt, he thought, and took another sip. It generally was, when he wasn't making it.

There was the sound of cracking wood and he followed it outside, the grass tickling the soles of his feet. He rounded the corner to the other side of the cabin and stopped, admiring the sight before him.

Shirtless, body glistening with sweat, Will lifted his axe and swung it down on a log. His muscles rippled with the motion and Hannibal named them all in his head. As Will moved the split log from the stump, he caught sight of Hannibal. A moment passed, during which Hannibal's heart clenched painfully, before Will smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.

"You burned the coffee," Hannibal said.

"I'll let you make it from now on," Will said. He hauled another log to the stump and placed it on, adjusting its position. It wobbled before settling, straight as an arrow.

"No," Hannibal said, and moved closer. "I like it."

Will swung the axe down and the log split. A splinter grazed Hannibal's cheek as it went past. He touched it, fingers brushing over his scar. 

"Sorry," Will said. "I'm still not used to doing this."

"I thought it was to be done during winter," Hannibal said.

Will graced him with a smirk. "That's in the movies. You want to be prepared before winter arrives. Otherwise, you're doing this in the freezing cold."

As he placed another log onto the stump, Hannibal finished his coffee and put a hand on the top of it. Will paused, glancing up at him and down again. He gripped his axe and lifted it, his muscles bunching. It swung down, narrowly missing the tips of Hannibal's fingers.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Hannibal took his hand away and the two pieces of wood fell to the ground. "What do you have planned for today?"

Will looked up at the sky and then into the woods. "I was going to fish," he said. "The Chinook salmon are in the rivers now. Spawning. The run offs will be full of them."

He looked eager, his hands flexing and closing. Hannibal watched them.

"Sauvignon Blanc," he said. "Paired with a goat’s cheese, arugula, and beetroot salad."

"Seems simpler than your standard fare."

"A simple life calls for a simple meal."

Will looked over from out of the corner of his eyes. They glittered with an unidentified emotion. "Would you like to fish with me?"

Hannibal tilted his head, considering. Will grabbed his shirt and pulled it on over his head. 

It was a tight fitting, short sleeved shirt that was soon wet with sweat. Hannibal ran his eyes along the dips and curves of Will's chest, so pronounced by the tight fabric, and touched the tip of his tongue to his bottom lip.

"I'll go," he said, stepping into Will's space. His musky, spiced scent was almost drowned in the terrible aftershave he insisted on using. Hannibal placed his empty cup on the stump and pulled Will close, breathing him in. "But I don't know anything about fishing."

His hands curled around Will's waist, bruising, claiming. He dipped his head down and caught Will's lips in a kiss, biting until they parted, and slipped his tongue into Will's mouth. Will tasted like coffee and warmth, and Hannibal pulled him even closer, enjoying the feeling of hard, feral strength teeming under Will's skin.

"I'll teach you," Will said, breaking the kiss. Hannibal watched blood bead along Will’s split bottom lip. 

"When do we go?"

"Today, if you want," Will said, easing back. "I got equipment for you too, when I stole mine."

Hannibal cupped Will's cheek, tracing the curve of his lips. "You planned this from the beginning."

Will pressed his cheek into Hannibal's hand. "I don't know what you mean," he said. 

"Will I have to wear those horrible rubber overalls?"

"Waders, and yes." Will pulled him forward for another painful, biting kiss that left him feeling like he was floating. "And a vest. You can't have a tackle box in the water."

Hannibal pressed their foreheads together. "Perhaps we should start with making a fly together," he suggested.

Will's smile was a bright, blinding sun. "I'll make one for you."

\------------------------

Hannibal loved watching Will fish.

There was a quiet contemplation in Will’s eyes as everything else fell away. The feeling of the water against his legs, the sound of it running over rocks, and the watchful, peaceful sense of knowing that there was other life surrounding him was all that remained. Hannibal stood, knee deep in water, and watched Will as he waded in deeper, holding his arms above the stream. He was waist deep before he stopped and looked behind him, a smile on his face.

“Come on,” he said. “You aren’t going to catch anything from there.”

Hannibal glanced down at the water. It was clear, and he could see a myriad of tiny fish swimming around him, nibbling at his PVC boots. He took a step and watched them dart away, silver flashes in the sunlight. As he made his way towards Will, the water made his waders feel cool and heavy around his legs. He stopped a metre away and looked at Will, waiting.

“We’re using glo bug egg flies,” Will said, handing him a bright and colourful ball of yarn. It was attached to a large, wicked looking hook. “They’re easy to make, and have a good deal of success with Chinooks.”

Hannibal pressed the pad of his finger to the hook. It pierced his flesh, and he sucked at the blood. “Will you teach me to make one?”

“It’s basically a pom-pom,” Will said, grinning. “But don’t tell most enthusiasts that.”

It was just a bit of yarn. Hannibal pinched the top of it, rubbing the fibres between his fingers. They were soft and warm. “It’s a combination of something comforting with the deadly reminder of steel’s power.”

Will checked over his rod and hummed. “I’m not sure about that.” He gave the rod a few swings before letting his fly arc over the water. It landed upstream, the bright colour of the yarn disappearing into the clear water. “I think it’s a symbol of the way of nature. The fly resembles an egg, and invites death.”

“In order to hatch, it needs death to fuel it,” Hannibal said. He watched as the floating line made its way back to Will. Fish were unconcerned as it went past, too spooked by the vibrations of their movements and voices to pay any mind. “What will come out of it?”

“Dinner,” Will said. “Come here, Hannibal.”

Hannibal obeyed, wading until he was just by Will’s side. Will looked at him sidelong before helping him afix the fly to the end of the tipping line. His fingers were dry and cool against Hannibal’s hands, and Hannibal leaned his weight on Will’s side. Will made his way behind Hannibal, sliding hands down his arms, and adjusted his stance.

“Be at ease,” Will murmured. “You aren’t fighting yet. This part is easy. Relaxing.”

“The wait before the true hunt begins.”

“Fishing isn’t hunting,” Will said against the shell of Hannibal’s ear. “It’s more patient. You lure the fish to you, and they choose to bite the hook. In a way, the both of you are in a dance with each other. Courtship, if you will.”

“Is that how you view it?” Hannibal asked, turning his head. Will’s face was right next to his, eyes glowing with hunger. “A courtship?”

A smile curved Will’s lips. “I view it as a complex relationship between the fish and the fisherman,” he said. “One where the fish is trying to resist, but ultimately succumbs to its nature.”

Hannibal turned his attention to the water. His line was wound around the reel, and he experimented with the drag adjust. The line pulled taut and Will put his hand over Hannibal’s.

“Careful,” he said. “You don’t want to break it.”

“How do I cast?”

“First, you cast to the back,” Will said, guiding Hannibal’s wrist to snap the line back. It cut through the air and hovered over their opposite shoulders. “Then you want to cast forward.” He made a smooth motion that sent the line arcing back to land in the water. “Both casts are equally important. You want the rod to bend and come to a sudden stop behind you. When the line is all the way behind you, and before it falls, you want to snap it forward again.”

“What happens if I misjudge?”

“The fly breaks,” Will said. “Then we have to attach a new one, and start the process again.” He released Hannibal and stepped back. “Give it a try.”

The first time Hannibal cast, he heard a snapping noise behind him. The line came back without the fly attached. Will chuckled, and it travelled through Hannibal’s body and along his nerves like lightning. 

“There should be more in your vest,” Will said. “Try again.”

Under his watchful eye, Hannibal cast the line out into the water on the third try without the fly breaking. It sailed through the air and landed with little more than a few ripples. Will’s expression was suffused with satisfaction, and Hannibal allowed himself the small indulgence of a thrill at the sight. Will waded over to his side and cast with a few flicks of his wrist.

“How many fish have you caught in a day?” Hannibal asked.

Will tilted his head. “It’s not about how many I catch. It’s about the quality of the fish.” He jerked the line, causing the fly to dance on top of the water. “My dad liked to count. He caught thirty once, when I was a kid. He said that was a bad day for him.”

“I agree,” Hannibal said.

“That my dad had a bad day?”

“That the number of the fish doesn’t matter. It’s the quality, and what emotions it brings you when the fish is defeated in your hands.”

Will hummed again, brushing a fly away from his face. “What do you feel when you hunt?”

It was a dangerous topic that Will was steering them towards. Hannibal copied him by tugging on the fishing line. The little lure bobbed and he saw a long line of silver dart away from it. The feeling of the sun on his skin was warm, and he closed his eyes, savouring the clean smell in the air. It would be a dry few days, and hot, he thought.

“Much the same you must feel, at the end of a day of fishing,” Hannibal said.

“Exhilarated,” Will said.

“Satisfied, too.” Hannibal smiled and moved the lure again. This time, the flash of silver was moving closer. There was a tug on his line, and then another, before his drag adjust began to spin.

“You have a bite,” Will said. “Reel it back in, before it gets away.”

Hannibal turned the drag adjust back towards himself, and frowned. There was resistance, and he had to dig his heels into the silt of the bottom of the river to stabilise himself. The fish was swimming away from him, and Hannibal could smell the slight tinge of blood in the water. The hook was in its mouth, and he could imagine its raw, blind panic as it tried to get away from whatever was hurting it. It could never comprehend that what caused it such pain was already buried deep within its flesh. The rod was bending, and Hannibal took a step back, rolling the drag adjust as fast as he could, the veins in his neck beginning to bulge.

“Lower your rod tip,” Will said, right by his side, breathless. “Give it a little slack, so your line doesn’t snap.”

“Should I stop reeling it in?” Hannibal asked, his rod’s tip brushing the water.

“No,” Will said. “It’s yours, now. Make sure it knows that.”

As sweat trickled down Hannibal’s nose, salty-wet on his tongue, the fish was dragged towards him. The line held, and he could see the golden scales and the wild, desperate look in its eyes. Predatory instincts awoke, and he pulled back with a sudden burst of strength, thinking of sinking teeth through delicate skin and veins. It was at his feet and Will moved, quick, light, his hand splashing down into the water and hauling the line up, exposing the fish to the air. Hannibal watched in fascination at the gills trying to suck in air, the mouth opening and closing in gaping terror.

“Your first fish,” Will said, handing the line over to Hannibal. “He’s a big one, too.”

Hannibal surveyed the fish. “What species is it?”

Will took a closer look. “A juvenile Chinook.”

“A juvenile?” Hannibal frowned at it. “I was hoping for an adult, at least.”

“On your first try?” Will looked amused. “It took me years to land a fish larger than seven kilos.”

“Granted, you were young when you started,” Hannibal said. He gripped the fish by the gills and slipped the hook off of its mouth. It looked up at him in mute appeal and he glanced over at Will. “What do I do?”

“Some fishermen club them, to at least knock them unconscious,” Will said. “Then they bleed the fish. Humane slaughter.”

“And yourself?”

Will cast his line. “I let them drown in the air,” he said. “And then I put them on ice.”

Hannibal watched, silent, until the fish stopped trying to breathe, and it’s eyes glazed over. He trudged back to the shore and gut it, his knife slicing through scale and bone. Will stayed in the river, casting and casting, a repetitive, relaxing motion. Hannibal watched as he cleaned the fish. With firm, easy strokes, he butchered the fish down to its components and wrapped each one in plastic film.

“Damn,” Will called from the river. “They’re really not biting today. May have to find a new fishing spot, if this keeps up.”

“They’re wary,” Hannibal said. 

Will cast again, and Hannibal watched a shadow dart towards his lure. It was large and heavy, and Will staggered forward as the line began to unspool from the reel. He dragged it back, winding the drag adjust, his hand a blur. Hannibal walked out towards him, the surf splashing up around his legs, and wrapped his arms around Will’s waist. Together they pulled back on the fish, exerting a constant pressure. With each movement, Hannibal could feel Will against him. He enjoyed the way their bodies melded into one and felt almost a sense of loss as Will dropped down and grabbed the large fish.

He was panting, grinning, the light in his eyes so joyful that Hannibal was compelled to lean over and kiss him. The cold of the water faded as their lips met and parted in a wet drag. Will was savage triumph, teeth and tongue, and Hannibal welcomed it, crushing their bodies together.

“Not here,” Will said, still pressing kisses along Hannibal’s jawline. “We’ll lose the fish.”

Flushed with victory, they went back to shore and Hannibal butchered the fish Will caught in the same manner he butchered the first one. Will rested, his hair slicked to his neck, water dripping from the ends. Hannibal resisted the urge to brush it out of Will’s eyes and wrapped the filets of salmon in plastic wrap. Will roused himself out of whatever reverie he was in and turned his head.

“Shall we go back in?”

Hannibal smiled. “Where you go, I will follow.”


End file.
